Home Again
by Tidwell
Summary: A sequel to my story "Home". House's long repressed memory of abuse and humiliation comes to the fore, compelling him to confront his father one more time. One shot. Stacy, Blythe, John House, OC


_**A/N: **It had been suggested to me by the very wise __**Angelfirenze **__that my story "Home" needed further closure than I originally gave it. I'm usually up for a challenge, so I got to work._

_Here is the end result.  
_

_I'd like to thank __**Angelfirenze**__ for her top notch beta work, her encouragement and inspiration. My love, thanks and appreciation also go out to **Betz88, **who always gives me a reason to keep on keepin' on.  
_

"_**Home Again"**_

The plan had been a good one.

Under the needle jet pressure of the shower, he came up with the seduction scene.

After setting his cane against the sofa, he would cozy up beside her on the cushions, move in for the kill before she could laugh or protest or ask how his night went. All action, no talk would delay getting into the inevitable conversation about his night and why he was in such a sorry state.

_Hmm, yes, sounds good._

The whole scenario played in his head like something from an adolescent date night or a Lifetime Original movie. So unlike him; so pathetic.

Hell, he was no writer but he knew what he wanted.

Stacy was here, just beyond the closed bathroom door. Through the steam, past the tiled walls, she waited for him. It had been too long. Last time he had sent her away because she was married. She thought she was so sure about him, yet _he_ knew she wasn't. _Because._ Now she was free. Despite the throbbing of his leg and the deep ache in his lower back, he felt a surge of optimism. Of course it wouldn't last. It couldn't. In Gregland, the chances of staying upbeat and hopeful were near zip. It just wasn't how things were done here.

Horning in on his strangely optimistic thoughts, were memories of the evening, of dinner, and, finally, of his escape. Bolting after the unsavory revelation his mother had unwittingly provided seemed like the right thing to do. Now he was not so sure.

_What did I tell you about optimism?_

After twisting the faucet shut, he grasped the handrail and with great care climbed out of the shower. His skin tingled as he toweled himself dry. In the mirror he looked a lot more clear-eyed than he had over the past month, those stress lines had softened.

_Stacy was here._

Sitting on the closed toilet lid, he managed to squirm into his underwear and jeans but not without causing his back to shriek a complaint; his leg joined the party, making the duet a loud, howling mess of pain. He hung his head, forcing himself not to groan or make that breathless girly screech that escaped him sometimes when he was alone and in agony. After slipping on his t-shirt, he basked in a solemn self-congratulatory moment, which quickly passed.

She wasn't on the couch but puttering around the kitchen. Two cups had been set up on the butcher block table. Steam rose from the kettle on the stove. It was all very cozy, all glaringly inconsistent with the tumbler of scotch and Vicodin chaser he would have prepared for himself--if he was alone.

As he entered the kitchen, she smiled and poured tea into his cup.

"Sit," she said, pouring herself a cup as well. "You hungry?"

He shook his head, not yet ready for another go-round with food. "I threw up before. Don't want to chance it."

"Flu?"

His brow creased as he pressed his lips together.

"Something else?"

He poked at his napkin with one finger.

"You don't feel like talking about it? Fine." She seated herself adjacent to him. "How's your leg?"

"Better."

"Your back?"

"Okay. Could have used a rubdown."

"Maybe later," she cooed.

The steam from the brew was warm and fragrant. Orange. Spices. Something Wilson probably left to moulder in the cabinet. House was glad Stacy had unearthed it; he didn't even have to drink up to enjoy.

They were silent for awhile. The steam from her tea tickled her chin as she raised her cup to drink. She took one slow sip, her eyes never leaving him. "Something you should know about tea, Greg. You've got to get it while it's hot."

He shrugged, nodded but made no move to heed her advice.

"It always helps to actually drink." She smiled around the lip of her cup as she sipped again. "Feels good going down. Better than booze."

His hands wrapped around the cup's warmth. "My mother has no idea what my father did to me."

Her look was one of interest, of concern, but not surprise. After all this time, she knew better to than be taken aback by much of what he said or did. "Would you care to explain?"

"Some memories lie in wait, ready to strike. " Tapping his fingertips against the still warm cup, he went on. "Some things my father did in the name of 'discipline' I could almost understand: the time he wouldn't talk to me for two months, the ice baths After all those years, I thought I _got _him. But this one memory...it festered and blackened and--" He took a breath. "I thought it was a dream. How could a doctor slap his teenage patient? How could the father of that kid stand by and allow it to happen?"

"Tell me."

He stared into his cup and related the horror, the skyrocketing fever, the pain in his throat, in his joints, how his temples pounded as he sat sick and dazed on the cold leather of the examination table. How his sobs and moans did nothing but make his throat feel like it had been scraped raw. The way Dr. Mifflin stared at him with impatience, barely restrained _hate_ in those little piggy eyes was something dredged up from a nightmare. But the _worst _part was when Mifflin finally lost control and raised his hand, slapping him _one _time, _two_ times,_ three_, while John House stood at the exam room door...and watched.

"He was my father." House massaged his temples and breathed, "He did nothing to stop it."

"You never told your mother?"

"I was delirious, was never sure it actually happened until she confirmed how he walked into that exam room to check on me."

"You need to tell her, Greg."

"Why should I when it's over and done?"

She set her spoon in her now empty cup and said softly, "Obviously it's not."

Stacy could always cut him down with her wisdom. In that regard, nothing had changed. "It would kill her."

"No it wouldn't," Stacy fixed him with a small smile. "Your mother is a lot stronger than you give her credit for."

"She's been through enough on this trip. Maybe another time-"

"No." Her hands were warm on top of his. "It should be now. If you ever want to try and make some lasting peace with your father and with yourself, it has to be now."

* * *

It was almost eleven when he called his mother's cell phone. He knew she would still be awake. Stress kept her mind sharp and alive and _going._ There were nights she roamed the rooms of whatever temporary housing they had been given by the Marines. His father would have been on assignment and Greg was supposed to have been asleep. But like his mother, he didn't need more than three or four hours of it to function. It was not unusual for him to be awake at two or three in the morning, well ensconced under his blankets with a flashlight and a book.

That's when he heard her roaming. Occasionally he could make out snatches of a conversation she was having with herself. Sometimes the swish of the broom could be heard as she swept an already spotless kitchen floor.

In the morning, she seemed as fresh and awake as if she had slept through the night.

There was that one time, after med school but way before the infarction, he questioned her about it. She was amused that he noticed, that he even cared to notice. But his interest didn't surprise her. _I don't like wasting time,_ she told him, smiling. _I learned a long time ago that time is more of a loan than a possession. If you don't make good use of it, it will just...wither away._

The truth of it hit him when everything turned around, his health, his relationships, his attitude...

His mother picked up on the second ring. At first her voice was a low rasp, tremulous and apprehensive. _"What's wrong?" _A question from someone expecting the worst.

Well, he hadn't woken her, that much was apparent.

"I was thinking," he said.

"So...what else is new?" She let out a long breath, somewhat relieved. "I can smell the smoke coming out of your ears from here." Her soft chortle was a small comfort.

"I was wondering if it would be alright--"

"Greg, since when do you have to ask me for anything like you're a stranger come to call?" There was a shift of fabric, a sip of a drink. Wine, maybe? Coffee? "Just tell me what you need."

"I need to see you."

* * *

The hotel coffee shop was open twenty-four hours, even at Christmastime. This was a rarity in Jersey, Evie, the smokey voiced waitress informed them. Her nose was hooked, her auburn hair spiked, her black nail polish gleamed under the yellow lights. No attempt at holiday cheer here. House glared at her. He hated her look and despised her patter even more, couldn't abide being the target of forced pleasantries. He might have told Evie this if his mother hadn't been sitting across from him, giving him a small, restrained smile and narrowing her eyes.

It was her 'be nice, Greg' look, one that had been in her roster since he was four years old.

He tapped his fork against his napkin and ordered a slice of apple pie and black coffee, while his mother opted for a cup of tea. Seemingly none too thrilled with their choices, Evie left them with a half--hearted "Be right up," then pattered off to put in the order.

"No wonder she works nights." House watched her enter the kitchen before returning his attention to his mother. "Probably needs to slip back into her coffin when the sun comes up."

Bowing her head, Blythe made a valiant effort to hide her amusement. It wasn't working. Her shoulders shook as birdlike tweets of laughter escaped her.

"So you agree."

"Stop it," she managed to say, waving one hand at him as she wiped her eyes with her napkin. "Oh, my Lord..."

House always enjoyed seeing his mother laugh. He allowed her to savor this respite a few moments longer before saying, "I'm sorry you had to abandon your post for awhile."

"Oh, it's no problem." She checked her look in her compact, dabbing at her eyes again before snapping the mirror shut and tucking it back into her bag. "Your father's asleep and Mac's in his glory. He's got the clicker and the TV and all the free movie channels he can dig into before sunrise."

House nodded and rubbed the tip of his finger against the table's lacquered wood. "He's a good man."

"I never knew you felt that way." Her eyes lit up. "I always thought he annoyed you."

"He does. It doesn't mean he's not a good man."

"I see."

"He's selfless."

"That he is."

"Dad treats him like crap."

Blythe's smile retreated like an army over the hill. "Your father doesn't like feeling beholden to people. He says the measure of a man should be gauged by how much he can carry on his shoulders."

"And, of course, real men don't cry."

"That's your dad." She raised her brows. "What are you getting at?"

"Remember when I had that fever?"

"You keep going back to that--"

"I cried then..."

The waitress returned with the tea, coffee and pie. After making sure House and Blythe got what they ordered, she ran one hand through her spiky do, while twitching them a smile. House dismissed her with a leer, then turned to his mother again, his look intense, searching. "Mifflin slapped me for crying."

"Oh, Greg. No, he didn't."

"He slapped me three times in the exam room...and Dad watched."

"You were delirious."

"I _know_ what happened. I remember." He stabbed the tines of his fork into the pie slice, sending bits of crust and apple flying across the table. Off his mother's disgruntled look he hissed, "You never had a clue, did you? What did Dad say when you saw him after that?"

She rubbed her brow as her eyes searched his, the quarter century old memory gradually taking weight and substance. "That...you needed to go to the hospital, so they could...put you on antibiotics and get your fever down."

"...like nothing ever happened."

"Is this why you needed to see me?"

This is why John House had such trust in Mifflin, they were buddies, _compadres_: men's men who believed in a firm hand. _Spare the rod _and all that shit. John was more than happy with Mifflin's botched attempt at disciplining Greg; he accepted without argument the poorly rendered medical treatments for the MS slowly eating away at him. They spoke the same language.

"I'm sorry," House said. "I just wanted to get some confirmation from you. Guess it's not going to happen."

"Greg," she said, grasping his hand that had been turning the spoon around and around. "I can't confirm something I don't know to be true."

Frowning, he shook his head, his gaze darting toward the lights, the patrons across the room, then back to her. "I'm ruining your Christmas."

"You're not. Believe me." She brought her cup to her lips. "Why don't you do yourself a favor and ask your father your questions yourself?" she said before she drank.

"Now who's delirious?" he muttered.

"Come by tomorrow morning," Blythe set her cup down, spooned a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. "We're going to order up room service breakfast before we leave." Turning her face toward the window, she stared at the passing headlights. "I really wanted to get to church..."

Digging into the cracked crust of his pie was a fine way to shift the focus of his attention from where the conversation was headed.

It didn't work very well.

"...sometimes you have to sacrifice..." She was stirring her tea, the spoon making tiny clink-a-clink noises against the inside of cup as she rambled on about church and God and Father Samuel back in Ohio, and how she was going to miss his sermon...

"Do you really think Dad will listen?"

She stopped stirring and stared at him.

"Do you think there's a chance he'll actually listen when I put it to him?"

"Things have changed," she told him in a tone as somber as the church service she wished she could attend. "It's something you'll have to find out for yourself."

* * *

They hadn't slept together. It might have happened had House not been so exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the day. The aches in his muscles and head had done nothing to help him morph into Casanova. _As if anything could._ He wasn't sure what happened after he lay across his bed and Stacy shut the lights. He did know he woke up alone, the sound of pans clanking and the spatter and sizzle of eggs in the skillet alerting him to the fact it was morning. The hot reunion he had anticipated had been postponed until further notice.

_oh, well..._

He showered, shaved (a little), dressed himself in trousers and the least wrinkled dress shirt he could find in his closet before joining Stacy in the kitchen. She wasn't exactly the picture of domesticity; she never was. It didn't matter that she wore the apron that Wilson insisted on keeping here, she still looked like she needed that Gucci briefcase and Prada pumps to complete her.

He couldn't help smiling at her efforts, at the way she puttered around, at how that errant lock of hair kept falling over her brow as she made toast, poured coffee, slid eggs from pan to plate. When she finally sat across from him at the butcher block table, he felt an odd sense of deja vu, which wasn't unpleasant. He wouldn't mind waking up to this every day. Again.

Instantly he quelled that desire as he explained his plans: how his mother was expecting him, that he needed to get some things straightened out with her and his father before they went home.

"How's your back?" she asked.

"Better." It was. The pain had faded to a dull ache, which, he knew, was partly because of his pills and partly due to a full night's sleep.

She fixed him with a look of concern, which he made a valiant attempt to ignore. One thing he didn't want to do was get bogged down in a swamp of memories, regrets, and false hope. This might work for awhile until the game was up and she realized he was still the same messed up jerk he always was.

"I'll go with you."

"No, thanks." He polished off the last of his eggs and scrubbed a napkin over his slightly shaved stubble. "No sense both of us being dragged into the dysfunctional mire that is my family."

"I could help you keep your footing."

His eyes lingered on her for a few long moments before he snapped himself from his reverie. Grabbing his cane, he levered himself to his feet. "Gotta go. Thanks for breakfast."

"Dinner in or out?"

He hadn't held out hope she would stick around. "You don't have to do this."

"You don't have to be an ass." She pointed her fork at him. "I asked you a simple question."

"Surprise me," he said, loping toward the door. "Like you always do."

* * *

The Christmas tree was small, blue and hideous. It sat atop the hotel suite's desk, its tinsel strips shimmering like pasties on a Las Vegas stripper. This was not an analogy House would swing by his mother. Mac, maybe. But the big guy's guffaws would alert Mom there was something not entirely savory afoot. Eventually she would get to the bottom of her son's un-Christmas-like comment and give both him and Mac 'the look'.

House didn't want to rile his mother on Christmas Day.

She was having enough problems making her husband presentable for the imminent room service holiday breakfast bash.

Their voices rose and fell, drifting from behind the closed door of the bedroom, competing with the annual Yule Log broadcast on TV. This year the Purveyors of All Things Yule Log-ian decided to dispense with holiday music behind the flame and play instead an ancient radio broadcast of "It's Wonderful Life". The fire snapped and crackled behind the actors voices, which made the reading sound like it was preserved on a scratchy vinyl relic.

House shifted on the too hard sofa cushion. This was worse than annoying; it was a total waste of time.

But Mac seemed like he couldn't have been more content, sipping orange juice from the can he took from the mini-bar, tilting his head as he listened to the broadcast.

"Dammit, Blythe! I can do it myself!" House's father sounded in rare form despite how far the disease had ground him down. From the corner of his eye, House could see Mac offering up that pity look. He hated it as a kid and he quadruple hated it now.

"Your dad hasn't lost that pepper, eh, Gregor?" Mac gave him a soft punch on the forearm, making House feel about twelve again.

"Is this the usual?" House asked, despite wanting to bolt out the door.

"Oh, yeah. It can be pretty darn entertaining sometimes. Kept me awake at the wheel all the way here." He guffawed, then took another sip of his juice. "Something to be said for that, I guess."

For the first time, House noticed how tired Mac looked. There were shadows under his eyes; he may or may not have dragged a brush through his hair that morning. Every once in a awhile he would trace one hand down his face, yawn, and pinch the bridge of his nose.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Blythe." That ragged, weary voice tore through the suite, making House again wish he could find it in himself to get up and leave. If it wasn't for his mother, he would have already vamoosed.

"If he's the sick one, how come he's so all fired loud?" Mac gazed in the direction of the tumult. "You're a doctor. Maybe you've got the answer."

"Just doing his damndest to convince himself he's still got some fire left in him." House shrugged. "He's a Marine forever and always. Semper Fi."

"You got that right."

"You should be home, Mac." Drumming his fingers against the cushion, House narrowed his eyes at the image of the fireplace on the twenty-eight inch screen. "This isn't what you want to be doing on Christmas."

"Oh...I don't know about that. It ain't called the season of giving for nothing."

Mac's sentiments might have been heartfelt but they were too rife with treacle for House's taste. Folding his arms across his chest, House grunted his reply.

"You have no idea, Blythe!"

The wheels of his father's chair squeaked a merry greeting as Blythe rolled it and its passenger across the room. It sounded like a mouse had hopped along for the ride. House pictured a cartoon vermin clinging to the spokes, eyes bugging, jaw scraping the tan carpet. He snorted.

His mother glared at him as she pushed the chair beside the sofa. She lowered her head for a ten-count before raising it and returning with a brave smile. "Mac...I thought..."

Mac's eyes were closed. He snored lightly, the now empty can of orange juice rising and falling on his chest with the rhythm of his breathing.

"Mac?"

"Idiot," John grumbled.

"Give him a little push, Greg. On his arm. That's right."

House's touch was enough to jolt Mac awake. "Oops." Mac laughed and rubbed his eyes. "Guess I must have gone nigh-nigh."

"Mac," she said, "I need you to come downstairs with me before breakfast arrives."

"Aw, Blythe. Why?"

"There are no presents," she said.

"There are presents home," John groused. "She buys Christmas presents in July, wraps them in August-"

"That's. Not. Here."

"Then why the hell didn't you bring them?"

"I had more important things on my mind at the time."

_Shit. _House threw her a look of half surprise, half respect. Her 'don't mess with me, Mister' tone poked its head up only rarely.

"You and Greg will have a nice visit while we're gone," Blythe patted John's shoulder, then rolled her eyes. "Mac!"

Mac jolted fully awake again, causing the orange juice can to fall to the carpet with a muffled _ponk!_ With a grunt, he pushed himself off the sofa.

"Let's go," Blythe said, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading for the door.

"There's probably nothing open," Mac grumbled. "Nothing's open on Christmas."

"Oh, ye of little faith," she said, pulling open the door. "We'll find something."

This was a plan, shaped and molded in his mother's devious mind during the wee hours of the morning. It was during those wakeful hours she plotted, wanting so badly to take one last shot at bringing lasting peace between father and son. _There's no way, Mom,_ House wished he could tell her as his father muttered to himself about the damn fakery on the television, the futility of his situation, and about a damn fool heathen of a son who didn't believe in Christmas anyway.

"You make things more difficult than they have to be." House's chest hurt. His heart pummeled his ribs like a the fists of a Golden Gloves boxer. He should just leave, pick up and go without looking back.

John continued glowering at the television.

"You'd be dead if it wasn't for Mom, Mac...and me, you know."

John's raspy chuckle stung like a slap across the face. "You've really gotten quite a mouth on you, Greg,"

That placid delivery was a sham, House knew. Inside, his father was seething. That miniscule tic by his eye and the twitch of his upper lip might have been products of his ailment, but more than likely they were brought about by this verbal feinting and weaving. They were testing each other, pushing all the right buttons to set the wheels of animosity in motion.

This couldn't possibly end well.

"The reason I'm here is that Mom thought I should talk to you about some...things."

"Did she now? Is that why we're being forced to sit here like two bad kids in detention?"

House tapped the tip of his cane against the carpet and muttered, "No one's forcing _me _to stay. I can leave. You can't."

"So go. Get the hell out." John reached out a shaky hand, making a futile attempt to grab the remote off the end table. "Give me the damn clicker before you do."

House leaned on the crook of his cane to lever himself up. Leaning over, he snagged the remote and tossed it in his father's lap. "What was the deal with Ernest Mifflin?"

"What do you mean?"

"He could do no wrong, according to you." House said. "And we both know that's not true."

"Dr. Mifflin is a smart man, a brilliant man, in fact. And it's a damn shame what happened."

"What...happened?"

_Oh, let's hear about how he whacked a feverish kid into unconsciousness in his exam room while you watched. While YOU WATCHED. _

"He got old, Greg." John clicked the remote twice and landed smack dab in the middle of the Walt Disney World Christmas parade. The Orlando sky was too blue, the brilliant colors of the floats battled it out for supremacy. It all made House's eyes ache. "Just like we all do," John concluded.

It was rare to hear his dad wax philosophical, like an old drunk who figured his teachings would enlighten anyone stupid enough to listen.

"He _hit_ me." The cheering crowd and blaring "Mickey Mouse March" made House want to hurl his cane at the screen.

Now his father's eyes were on him. House could feel the heat of his glare, the animosity radiating off him in waves.

"You need to back up your accusations, son."

"Ah, but I have a witness." House raised his head, stared the old man down. It felt good, like getting some of his own back. "Don't I?"

It was as if someone flicked a switch. Somehow the room seemed too close, stifling, as if the walls were closing in, millimeters at a time...

John's body trembled, his hands fidgeted in his lap as he coughed and wheezed, his breaths escaping in small, violent bursts.

_An act? _ House thought, heading toward the desk and a bottle of Poland Springs resting in an ice bucket. _Maybe. Nah, probably not._

It would cost five dollars to break the seal on the stupid plastic bottle and get the old man a drink. Hotels were cagey; did they do studies on whether people will actually fork out bucks for water they might just as easily get for nothing?

Bottled water was crap but it was handy. No sense being inconvenienced when five dollars would get him what he needed right here and now. _'course, _House figured, _I could do it, could make the effort, go to the sink and turn on the tap, but that would take time. The old man's pretty uncomfortable, rasping and gasping and wheezing._ _Ach, ach, ach! _

House hummed a tuneless tune, taking his time unscrewing the cap. After a few long moments he had finagled the wrapper off the straw. Sometimes it was so difficult getting the simplest things done.

_Five dollars_.

He turned on his heel and made his way back to where the old man sat, gripping the arms of his chair, his face as scarlet as the TV Santa's suit, _That ol' faker Clause Must be broiling in that get up under the Florida sun..._

"Drink."

His father fixed him with a petulant glare but accepted the offering anyway, sipping shakily while House held the bottle.

"Done?" House asked as John cleared his throat and slumped back in his chair.

"Yeah."

"I do have a witness," House said again.

"You can't let this go."

"Not when I'm right."

"You have nothing."

"You were there," House tilted his head, cocked a brow. "You saw it happen. Live and in living, caterwauling color."

Two pink spots appeared on the old man's cheeks. "You had no respect then and not a hint of it now. It's too bad." He gripped the arms of his chair and trembled. "The marines would have made a man out of you."

House paced, leaning hard on his cane. His leg was beginning its morning ritual he liked to call "The Tighten-Up".

It was time for his second dose of morning meds. But he would let it go for awhile. Allowing the old man a glimpse of his son's vulnerability wouldn't help House do what he had to do.

"I was a kid."

John scoffed. A droplet of water shivered on his chin. "Doc Mifflin had the right idea. You squealed like a stuck pig, for God's sake."

"I _hurt._"

"I've seen plenty of people in pain, son, and they never made the kind of fuss you did."

House paced as he scowled. "So you let him."

"Of course I did." For a moment, John seemed confused. He fidgeted with the remote, muttered something under his breath as he gazed at the floor, at the ceiling, then at House again. "I never questioned Doc Mifflin."

"You had issues with everyone in the world but him." House stood with his back to the TV, pressing his palm hard into the crook of his cane. "That's pretty damn amazing considering your track record."

"He was brilliant."

"He almost killed you," House said.

"Let me tell you something about loyalty and confidence, Greg." John wagged a finger at him. "There is something to be said for sticking by someone. Did you know Mifflin was a medic in the Korean War? Worked in a MASH unit. The 8055th. Selfless. A hero of the first order. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"He almost _killed_ you."

"He was my friend." John's chin trembled with a bit more gusto, causing the water droplet to drip onto his collar. It shimmered there for a moment before bleeding into the fabric.

"So when your friend told you to jump you asked, "How high"?"

"Get the hell out."

"You have a death wish, Dad?"

"Talking to me that way is...insubordination." House could sense the fear in his father's tone. Good. Let him stew in it. It would be easy to leave now that the mission had been accomplished.

John House was well aware the jig was up. Mifflin was gone. A secret conspiracy had been revealed. But House couldn't let it go. Not when more buttons were waiting to be pushed.

_Getting your own back..._

"'Because that's what it seemed like," House continued. "You and Mifflin hid your medical records from me for as long as you could. It's like you were happy to just sit back and wallow in your disease because _he_ said it was okay. His promise that eventually you would recover kept you going.

"You believed him over me and it took a shitload of time and energy to remedy that situation."

He paused, temples throbbing, stomach doing cartwheels. "You ever consider what your actions did to Mom?"

He was rolling now and there was no turning back. When had he ever spoken to his father this way? He couldn't remember; suddenly he couldn't think. His heart was pounding triple time and he needed to back into the wall and close his eyes until it slowed.

He blinked them open to find John's eyes were on him, wide, staring, surprised. House recalled being on the receiving end of that look only one other time: the day he opted for medical school over the military.

"Sassing your father doesn't make you a man, Greg," John rasped, clenching the wheelchair's armrest. "It makes you a disrespectful ingrate."

"You understand, though. You know exactly where I'm coming from and you don't like it." House paused, licked his lips and stared at the tip of his cane digging into the nap of the carpet. "Not my problem," he muttered.

"If you're done you can leave." John flicked the channels and stopped at an old black and white war movie. A pensive Gary Cooper was strolling the deck of a battleship. "I don't want to talk to you anymore. You're rambling like a goddamn fool."

Okay. _That_ hurt. He didn't think his father's words could still pack such a potent wallop. Obviously he was wrong.

Somewhere in the swirling mass of contradictions that was _him_, House had hopes he and his father might reach an impasse today. That he could leave here feeling something had changed for the better. Why he continued to care after all these years he had no idea.

_I don't want to talk to you._

Alrighty, then. Have it your way. You sure as hell always did.

"The truth," said House with the slightest tremor in his tone, "It will fucking get you every time."

* * *

He spied them through the window of the hotel gift shop, past a display of Poinsettias and gift baskets and wooden soldiers. To his surprise, there were quite a few shoppers of the last minute kind wandering the aisles.

They scrutinized porcelain Santas and reindeer with blinking red noses, holding them up to the light like they were rare, priceless gems.

Mac pointed at something in a display case, made a cockeyed face and stuck out his tongue. This caused Blythe to laugh so hard, she doubled over, holding her stomach until that laughter wound down.

When was the last time he had seen his mother so relaxed, so carefree? For now, it seemed, stress had taken a hike. Her smile was easy, her eyes bright as a child's, taking in all the pretty holiday kitsch she loved so much.

His father never shared her love for the holidays, but years ago, to his benefit, he made an effort to put on a believable show. When House was a kid, John would play the part well, taking little nips of Scotch as the presents were opened, smiling as he received a new tie or a shoeshine kit or a book about famous military battles.

In recent years he dropped the facade, scowling through the merriment, snatching the enjoyment from Blythe and stashing it high on a shelf she couldn't possibly reach. Until today.

It would be easy to leave without a word and spirit himself back to Baker Street. His mother would get the John House version of the altercation and that would be that. But watching her through the gift shop window caused him to reconsider. Partly because he was loath to put a damper on his mother's good mood and selfishly because he wanted to slip his story through the transom before his father had a chance.

Blythe touched Mac's arm and led him to the cashier. He set a blue plastic basket on the counter. That basket was filled to the brim; everything in it was green, red and shiny. All plastic crap that would most likely end up in a box on the top shelf of the hall closet until next December rolled around. But if it made her happy--

Their eyes met just as she wheeled around to pick one more shiny thing off a display rack. After handing it to Mac, she dug through the basket, pulled out an item and made a quick purchase. As she headed for the exit, her smile was fading. By the time she reached House it was gone.

"Why did you leave him?" she said before the door had even hissed shut behind her. That worry had returned along with its old pal stress. He could tell by the tilt of her head, the fix of her jaw. Her accusatory stare made him wish he had followed his first inclination to vamoose.

"He told me to."

She shook her head slowly and sighed. "What did you say to him?"

"I asked him for the truth and I got it." His smile was as sour as his father's demeanor. "I was right about Mifflin...that time in his office. He hit me. Dad watched. I just had to know." He shrugged. "I'm...sorry."

Her brow creased. She frowned as if her son were speaking a language she was only just beginning to understand. "You know, I'm the one who should be sorry, Greg." She placed her palm gently over his cane hand. "Some things I didn't see and some I didn't want to see. You suffered for it."

There was nothing he could say in reply; she pretty much covered it all. His free hand patted her arm. "Thank Mac for me." He kissed her cheek and turned to go.

"Oh, Greg," she called as he reached the exit. "Don't leave without your gift."

After tapping his cane twice against the carpet, he turned and approached her again. In her hand was an offering, something green and red and white and shiny.

"You didn't give me a chance to wrap it." With a smile, she placed it in his open hand.

"Snowman," he said, holding it to the light. It glittered and winked like it was stuffed full of stars.

"Push the button on the back"

The slightest pressure of his finger brought Snowman whirring to life. "Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight", it sang in a tinny, tiny voice.

"It's only ten-fifteen in the morning." House folded his hand over Snowman and tucked it carefully in his coat pocket. "Would have been better if I waited 'til tonight."

"You like it."

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "Sure."

"Take care of yourself, Greg."

"You too."

She hugged him a bit too tightly for his liking, but he let it go. After a moment, she stepped back, teary eyed but smiling. "See you soon."

He walked out of the hotel and onto the snow dusted sidewalk, loping toward the parking garage, which was just across the street. He made it as far as the coffee shop on the corner before succumbing to his pain.

With a wince and a grunt he took two stuttering steps backwards, feeling like a drunk on payday but without the requisite buzz. His shoulder bounced against a coffee shop window. This was as good a place as any to self--medicate.

Dipping into his pocket, he brought out his vial, thumbed off the cap and shook two pills into his waiting palm. After dry swallowing, he let out a long breath and found to his dismay he had an audience.

A pair of ancient denizens of the street tottered around a fire hydrant like it was a maypole. In an attempt to keep warm, they shuffled one in back of the other, as if at any moment they just might break into the bunny hop.

And they only had eyes for House.

"Good stuff?" croaked the taller one with the ugly purple--yellow bruise on his forehead.

Their laughter was as grating as fingernails scraping a ragged path down a blackboard.

"You gonna give us some holiday green, mister? You got a nice jacket, fancy sneakers. Look at his sneakers, Wally. They musta cost a pretty penny."

"You get that looked at?" House jutted his chin at the the dude with the bruise.

"Wally here looked at it. Says it's ugly but I'll live. Real shame, huh?" He hawked up something shiny and bilious and spit it into the road. "Wally used to be a doctor. You believe it? Lost his license for enjoying the fruits of his labor with a little too much gusto. A few pills here, a pick-me-up shot there. But he wasn't hurting no one, were you, Wally?"

"I could handle it."

"Yeah, he could handle it."

"My only mistake was getting caught." Wally's voice was as rough and sharp as gravel on a dirt road.

House didn't feel a bit sorry for him.

"You were stupid," House said, looking forward to the warmth of his car and putting distance between himself and these derelicts. "In your next life go for the booze."

"Karma, oh, wise one," the gruff voiced one shouted as House set a course for the parking garage. "It'll get your ass too."

_It already has._

* * *

Stacy _did _surprise him by making herself scarce. She didn't call or sleep with him that night. House ordered a pizza, washed it down with Seagrams, figuring she had better things to do than waste her time with him.

Second thoughts, flashbacks of arguing, accusations and aggravation. Time, it seemed, had stuck its nose in to work against this reunion.

As was sometimes the case, House was wrong.

She waited for morning to spirit herself into his place, to warm the other side of his bed, to wake him with a lingering touch on just the right area of skin.

He turned over slowly, remnants of sleep numbing his surprise. His body was more prepared though, responding to her presence the way it always did.

_Little Greg never forgets._

"Sorry I wasn't here yesterday." She draped one arm over his chest. "Had some things to tend to. I'm free for the next couple of days."

"Mmm, good." He raised a brow and traced his fingers over her forearm, her breast. "I'm not. Gotta work tomorrow."

"Then I guess we'll have to make the most of today."

"Mmm."

"Everything alright with the folks?"

"Not really," he breathed, moving his hand under her blouse. "The visit confirmed my suspicions. At least now I know."

"What do you know?" His thumb traced the nipple hardening under her bra.

Her eyes closed as she emitted that familiar half growl, half purr of arousal. With a throaty laugh, she moved one hand down the front of his sweat pants. "You don't want to talk about this, do you?"

"At the moment...no."

"Nice snowman." She tilted her head toward the nightstand, her hand stroking him with gentle persistence.

"He talks." With a grunt, he unhooked her bra, then savored her mews of pleasure as his fingers roamed the familiar terrain.

"Oh, yeah?" Her voice was husky, raw. Her desire overriding that oh--so professional tone. "What's he say?"

He had to mull this over for a moment, the rhythm of her hand and the softness of her skin making coherent thought a challenge. "Merry Christmas to all..." he said, finally.

The rest of the sentiment was lost beneath the sheets and the comforter and the sounds of making up for lost time.


End file.
